Gentleman's Muse
by Shiniboo
Summary: While searching for the missing MOBIUS members, Sebastian finds himself haunted by old ghosts and guilt of his own creation; while investigating a mansion of disturbing artwork and grotesque sculptures seeming to come alive all around him. Meanwhile, Stefano is seeking out a new muse for his next art piece and a certain detective is becoming more and more picture perfect...


**Disclaimer:** The Evil Within 2 is a game developed by Tango Gameworks and published by Bethesda Softworks. I do not in any shape or form own rights to these characters or the game itself. I am merely a fan with devious ideas. Thank you.

 **Warnings:** None so far.

 **Author's Note:** For awhile now, I've been wanting to branch out from the usual fandoms I write in, and that's why I decided to give this pairing my best attempt. I love the Evil Within series, and...the second game I instantly wanted to pair theses two. Don't ask me why, because it's just one of those urges and you simply embrace it. So, please enjoy chapter one and let me know if things are interesting so far and worth continuing. _Thanks!_

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 **Gentleman's Muse** (working title; accepting suggestions)  
 _Chapter One: A Glimpse of Inspiration_  
[Stefano Valentini x Sebastian Castellanos]

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 _ **Flash!**_

A piercing radiance bursts into existence, the noise of a shutter accompanying the illumination. Gradually the light fades to unveil a haunting room of ghastly photographs, macabre artwork, and faceless sculptures. The structure of the room seems much like a museum of sorts with each piece of art stationed by a wooden nameplate featuring the work's title, and showcase lighting to bring the artwork to life within the sparsely illuminated room. Midnight blue walls and wooden flooring make up the rest of the room, while crimson roped dividers lay distributed around the expanse of the flooring to shield each sculpture away from prying hands. In the direct center of the room stands a gigantic collection of human body parts, and unknown additions, morphing into an emotionally tragic portrait far too subjective or awe-inspiring to translate into words.

The piece is phenomenally beautiful yet unmistakably dreary all the same, but perhaps that is precisely what makes this particular artwork the greatest centerpiece for the absolute theme of the artist's presentation. From the moment a person fixates their eyes on it, they are drawn in and unable to escape its massive gravitational pull. The artwork seems alive; pulsating and almost trembling beneath the radiance of white stage lights encasing it. Trails of crimson course down the fleshly surfaces, but never splatter onto the floor or venture away from their designated paths. Soulless eyes and reaching limbs, of countless arms and numerous gazes, seem to twitch and extend for freedom outside their petrified state. But time is stagnant, and they remain silenced and still.

Left of the room a door swiftly bears open to reveal a tall gentleman in a neatly pressed navy blue suit with a white dress shirt peeking out underneath; a distinguishing woolen red scarf both secured and tucked partially beneath his suit jacket. Slender hands, hiding within the safety of brown gloves, clutch tightly at an outdated camera in an offhandedly possessive manner as the man ventures fluidly to the enormous art-piece stationed in the middle of the exhibit. Earnest fingertips grace over the circular outer edge protecting the camera's front lens as glinting cerulean hues transfix upon every detail and meticulous touch of the artwork.

He is in awe at the sheer beauty and raw intensity gazing back at him; from the naked flesh to the piercing sets of eyes frozen in terror, or helplessness, to the streaks of glowing crimson so ostensibly fresh and moist—he is falling in love all over again. Feeling sudden excitement and inspiration, spurred by the visage in front of him, a loose grin twitches maddeningly at the corners of his otherwise resigned countenance. Wordlessly, for no one stood to share in this momentous occasion with him, he realizes:

" _How will I ever overcome this? This! This charming mercy depicted by my beloved Obscura!"_

Akin to angelic creatures, mentioned perpetually throughout history, she remains timelessly suspended with her pale-skinned arms outreaching heavenward to embrace all of humanity and creation. A few scattered individuals ensnared within the midst of her radiance; their putrid flesh, bloodied husks, and terrified eyes awaiting her generous attention. Countless arms with open hands, sullied by vital fluids in striking contrast to the flawless alabaster flesh of her dominate appendages, extend from the spine of her back in a vision of outstretched wings. She is ascending, his beautiful Obscura is transcending the boundaries of her humanoid cocoon and becoming so much more. And those worthless ones, desperate to share in her radiance, our being cast down for the sake of fueling her transformation. It is utter beauty of his own design!

That vacant fear, that helplessness, eternally rooted in time for him to witness in perpetuum.

But—it is never enough! Still he craves more; far more than this esteemed masterpiece exclusively.

He can surpass this current achievement, produce more exquisite manifestations of infinite fear and unending demise. He will harness the perfection of supreme art in its finest form, in a manner that shall allow him to incessantly memorialize the glorious moments leading up to death; from the precise seconds of a knife or gunshot, for example, tearing through skin and bone to the splash of crimson fleeing its dying host as a lifetime of emotion flashes across its owner's countenance—like a movie-reel shuffling through their closing statements.

It won't be comparable to his lifeless portraits but, rather, genuine enough to literally transport one's self into the actually scene and witness each lingering detail in slow-motion animation—over and over—from start to finish. From the splash of blood, to the transformation of panic melding into disbelief and horror, to the final glimmer of regret and anguish, and to the conclusive movement of fatal impact—all captured and saved to be rewound for viewing eyes. Countless bodies persevered in their own distinct galleries.

The maddening grin tugging at the corners of his mouth ultimately breaks free and formulates into a triumphant smile, as doting fingertips settle and bring the camera to hug possessively at his chest. So much time has transpired since he initially took this device in hand and snapped his first couple of photographs. In the beginning he lacked the talent and direction to authentically justify the nature of his art. Yet, time has matured his abilities tremendously since those adolescent days of resisting and fighting the limitations of society and mankind's thirst for justice when they themselves create the monsters they fear. However, such grievances are in the past. Now within this machine, known as STEM, utilizing practically the complete potential of manipulating and reshaping this reality as he deems appropriate. Such notions as teleportation or suspending time are child's play for him, but that is merely the beginning. He is capable of harnessing more powers; more creativity for the sake of enhancing his artwork to its fullest potential!

But—something is missing.

He is without a muse, without a focus for his next art project. All who have visited him recently have ceased to captivate him like his beloved Obscura; they were effortless additions to his gallery and none of them provided him with passion, with a challenge to sake his creativity. At this point, it is just a pathetic waiting game—pinning for inspiration to whisk him away into a new euphoria of artist expression—but definitely one he is accustom to.

Releasing a hand from his camera, purposeful movements smooth out the ends of his suit as he painstakingly averts his sights from the outreached arms of his goddess and travels back across the room to the door he recently opened. Sometimes, just witnessing her in the peak of perfection calms his nerves and offers him a renewed chance at steering closer to where he must progress next in exceeding his current limitations.

"Tonight will surely be picture perfect, don't you agree, Obscura?" He whispers ominously, while gracefully shutting the door behind him and returning to his studio. There is work to be done, and he is already beginning to shudder at the electrifying surge of inspiration welling up inside him.

 _Meanwhile..._

In a distant room, showcasing a smaller gallery, a door creeks open; its momentum triggering a hidden switch and activating a camera positioned nearby. The sound of working gears and machinery follows suit, before a Polaroid picture slides out and floats to the ground. Immediately all movement halts as the force behind the creaking door freezes in alarm and a surprised groan shatters the otherwise stagnant air. In the doorway stands a slightly hunched over man, his spine curved over in a defensive posture while his hands stood raised in a guarded position over his face and eyes. A plain blue shirt and brown pants encase his form, as well as, a brown holster and vest upon his shoulder and waist. One of his hands is strangely wrapped in white bandaging too. Beyond those protectively raised hands are tired features, aged through countless taxing experiences and horrors, covered in messy facial hair cut short but not properly tamed.

Slowly chocolate brown hues glare forward in squinted discomfort, trying to regain vision as the sudden brightness blinded him temporarily. When the intensity fades, trained and muscular arms gradually lower to allow him the opportunity to see properly again as he straightens his back to stare into the room ahead. Puzzlement and mild disgust twist his features as he moves cautiously into the unknown territory, his bandaged hand hovering subconsciously at ready to grab his gun if needed.

The atmosphere is deafeningly quiet, which only places him further on edge as he steps over to the camera ahead and reaches for the recently made photograph. For the briefest of moments he hesitates to look at the picture and finds his gaze drawn around the room towards the unsettling artworks and creations. In all his years on the force as a detective—seeing one gruesome scene after another—nothing has ever been quite like this. It seems like a collage of intricate deaths and dismemberment arranged into abstract designs or just raw imagery; yet the focus appears more in-depth and oddly colorful in spite of the haunting lifelessness of the people being torture to create the artworks.

The one solemnly captivating him depicted a man having been pushed, shot, or perhaps driven by another unknown force over a railing to plummet to his doom; yet the captured angle of the photo shows the man with his arms spread from his sides and large bursts of crimson spraying from his back like angel wings. If not for the nature of the image, one might almost be tempted to call it beautiful but he is not the type to think such a thing and finds himself only feeling disgust at the grotesque nature.

" _Who would dare call this 'art'?"_ His mind questions as he jerks his eyes away from the image and resigns himself back to the task at hand.

With a displeased sigh, one hand lifts the photograph into his line of sight. It is no surprise to him that the Polaroid reveals the visage of his startled countenance from moments ago.

Upon closer inspection, beyond the dry lips strained wide in a grimace—teeth slightly parted in a wordless gasp—beneath the creased darkened eyebrows caving in heightened alarm, are squinted eyes that captivate him immediately. Those eyes are deeply familiar to him yet, for some reason, in this moment they seem so foreign. Years of regrets and firmly seeded anguish have aged the surrounding lines, while countless sleepless nights spent drinking have given the coloration a somber undertone.

In their depths speaks the immense guilt of a man unable to save his own daughter from the roaring flames burning his cherished home to ash and unable to trust in his own wife's resolve to expose those responsible for ruining their lives. In his grief, in his stubbornness to suppress all those agonizing memories deep inside to never surface again, he merely deferred to shielding himself from the pain by pushing everyone away; beyond arms reach where no one could wound him and, most importantly, where he could never fail—again.

A lamentable whisper of breath escapes his mouth, a partly bandaged hand crumbling up the Polaroid and tossing it into the shadows of a nearby corner. "I don't have time for thoughts like this," he contemplates wordlessly before trailing the same hand through his messy ebony locks. Even if by sheer willpower alone, he has to keep placing one foot in front of the other; not for himself, but for the sake of his daughter.

Those people, MOBIUS, say she is here in the realm of this machine known as STEM; where they have linked her consciousness with countless others in this alternate reality named UNION. All the fancy terminology and scientific prattle confuses him; he is a well-trained and intelligent man but he is more accustom to gut-feelings and instinct. Abilities like those have always saved his ass and kept him alive, but now he is beginning to doubt if that's truly enough to finally end all of this insanity.

" _She must be so scared,"_ he mutters softly while suddenly clinging tightly to the locks he had just smoothed neatly back into place, or at least the neatest they were going to get these days.

If he doesn't get a grip soon this will all have been for nothing. He has to cease thinking now, like right now, or nothing will change. For a few seconds chocolate brown eyes disappear into the safety of darkness, as controlled breaths escape him in a rhythmic tempo, before their dull intensity resurfaces with a renewed sense of calm. If he tries to simply remain relaxed then perhaps moving forward won't be so hard.

A single shoe moves forward and then another, before shifting into a steady pace.

He is finally making progress again.

Beyond the door, through the series of galleries and to the top of a staircase cloaked in a crimson carpet, lies an abyss of blackened walls and pinned alabaster picture frames outstretched across a seemingly endless hallway. Unlike the images and displays from the previous room, the entire atmosphere unveiled before him seems more raw and hauntingly alive. From every direction, this way and that way, the room seems to pulsate and actually quiver. The portraits and scenes shifting, converging in and out of each other, while the deceased gazes of dismembered and barely recognizable sacks of flesh—too contorted to be considered human anymore—bore into him selfishly; almost accusing him of being the one responsible for their torment and suffering.

With each calculated step, of the soles of his shoes against the suitably crimson carpet, they watch him eagerly. Not one pair of eyes blinks, except his own, and with each passing second his heart begins to beat faster. The tension is thick enough to cut with a knife; if he were in a better mood he might have actually attempted to do so just for a laugh but this is no time for senseless jokes. He is on edge, shifting his vision to every corner of the room, yet his movements are slow and attentive.

He is watching them too...waiting for whatever might happen.

But they are corpses, dead vessels with eyes condemned to merely stare and covet the living without remorse, and so the exchange continues without pause. Life and death piercing into each other until the latter is consumed by the provocation disturbing its sanctuary; driven to enact vindication unto those responsible for waking them, for reminding them of what they now lack.

Yet their staring contest is disrupted as the slow, purposeful stride comes to a finale at the end of the carpet. A single door greets his advance yet he hesitates in revealing what may lie ahead. Instead cautious fingertips are reaching down to ghost over the brown holster and settle over the smooth metal of a lone pistol. Tension makes his fingers twitch greedily at its handle, baiting him to unsheathe it from its solitary confinement, yet movement ceases as an ominous knock reverberates from the other side of the door.

The haunting silence he has grown so accustom to shatters to pieces, but the change kindles a budding determination within him and coerces his fingertips to seize the grip of his weapon. Even with so much at stake, he remains constantly lost within a perpetual cycle of uncertainty due to his mistakes, due to his reluctance to face his own demons.

" _Will she even recognize me?"_

He never stops wondering if she will reject him, if he will no longer be strong enough to lift her into his arms and reassure her that everything will be okay. However, the monsters—not lurking in closets or underneath beds—that threaten him each step of the way give him resolve. Because of them, the traitorous thoughts eventually fade into survival instincts and maroon his mind on auto-pilot; because of them, this pistol is resting firmly at ready in his clutches as he applies pressure to the door and pushes it open.

However, what exists on the other side is not what he is anticipating.

Impenetrable and unyielding, shielding the advance of any who might dare to pose a challenge, resides a plain brick wall. Strangely, neither this discovery nor the previous knock are what unsettles him. Instead his eyes are transfixed upon the words painted in scarlet across the center:

 _ **We see you.** _

Suddenly the tension in his form prickles; carrying throughout his nerves like a liquid inferno and numbing him straight to the core. Yet something manages to breach through his muddled senses and tickle his shoulders. Gentle touches, barely noticeable at first then unrelenting the more he becomes aware of them, press into his clothed skin.

The thin layer of his shirt is protecting him yet for some reason the sensation burns as if making direct contact to his flesh. The reaction is familiar, is chilling him much the same as when a spider crawls along a person's body. That uncertain apprehension, that prickling sensation causing your hairs to stand on end, is all so complementary except—spider don't whisper:

" _ **We found you."**_

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 **{Chapter One End}**

A/N: Thank you for reading to the end! I hope you enjoyed this journey so far, and...maybe you'll be back for more _?_ If you liked what you've read so far, please be sure to leave a review and let me know. If there is something that seems odd or an idea you might have for an edit/change, then please share that with me as well. Thanks, again. _Bye!_


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